"Yours as ever,
"TOMMY."
I was just making out the last words, when Joyce emerged from the cabin, carrying some tea on a tray.
"Here you are, Neil," she said. "I have cut you only two slices of bread and butter, because I don't want you to spoil your supper. There's cold pheasant and peas and new potatoes."
I pulled out the bottle of champagne from my pocket. "If they're as new as this wine," I observed, "they ought to be delicious."
Joyce accepted my contribution, and after reading the label, placed it carefully on the floor of the well. "Sarcon et fils," she repeated. "I always thought they made vinegar."
"Perhaps they do," I replied. "We shall know when we drink it."
Joyce laughed, and sitting down beside me, poured me out a cup of tea.
"You've read Tommy's letter," she said. "What do you think about it?"
I took a long drink. "From the little I've seen of Mr. Bruce Latimer," I said, "I should put him down as being one of the most accomplished liars in England." I paused. "At the same time," I added, "I think he's a fine fellow. I like his face."
Joyce nodded her head. "But you don't believe his story?"